


of joints and of marrow

by summerofspock



Series: of joints and of marrow [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (as in there are some latex gloves in use), Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Glove Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Mutual Pining, Pining while fucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Repression, Rimming, Rough Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), erotic wound treatment, sex on a stool, which should be a tag imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Crowley used to slink into his tent after a battle, bruised knuckles and bleeding mouth, and after Aziraphale tended to him it would become biting kisses, hands inside clothes, huffing breaths. It was a terrible idea. It hurt. It made things worse. Torn stitches, reopened wounds. And yet they did it every single time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: of joints and of marrow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672942
Comments: 78
Kudos: 629
Collections: Hot Omens, Summer's Kink Corner, Top Aziraphale Recs





	of joints and of marrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [racketghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racketghost/gifts).



> CW: some blood, injuries, wound treatment
> 
> on the romcom discord we were discussing unique kinks and @racketghost had some of the more specific (and dare I say it, strange) ones so I asked "give me your top kinks, I want to work them into a fic. I'll do at least three." I actually think I got the whole list in here and I won't pretend I'm not proud of that
> 
> so I will say, this is not my usual fare, nor my usual style but I hope it's fun for all!
> 
> title from Hebrews 4:12

_1982_

The bell above the bookshop door tinkled. Aziraphale stood up from his desk, and came around the bookcase, expecting a customer. He gasped when he saw Crowley leaning his weight against the pillar by the door, looking quite pale.

"Good lord, what happened?" Aziraphale asked, rushing to his side. His nostrils filled with the scent of dirt and blood and when he looked down he saw scrapes on Crowley's knuckles, trickles of blood drying down his fingers.

"Mugging," Crowley said, trying for nonchalant and coming out pained. "Would you believe it? Got ‘em to run off but not before he stuck me. I wouldn’t have come, but the cut...it’s hard to reach."

Crowley gestured at his leg and Aziraphale saw the cut in the side of his trousers. Even though the fabric was black, Aziraphale thought the shine to it was blood.

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale fussed, already herding Crowley to sit down on the stool beside his desk. It would make it easier for him to deal with his thigh once they got to that. "Hands first or…"

Crowley sat on the waist height stool, long legs barely perched on the ground. He hissed in pain but held out his hands. “Hands, I think.”

Aziraphale rushed to the back room and fished out the first aid kit he kept on hand for this express purpose, grabbing towels and filling a small basin with water. When he returned, he saw Crowley without his sunglasses, his head bowed, breathing shallowly, and Aziraphale’s chest grew tight. He was familiar with this feeling, this ache in Crowley’s presence.

It wasn't as if they didn't spend time together these days. It had simply been...tense since their argument about the holy water in St. James and most of their visits had been primarily for business over the last century.

Aziraphale missed him something fierce.

He hated how he didn't get to see the way Crowley changed from year to year. How he didnt know the cut of his suit in 1936 or how he'd styled his hair in 1912. If it was slicked back the way it was now, revealing his widow's peak, the vulnerable skin of his temples, the sensitive shells of his ears.

It had only been about 6 months since Aziraphale had seen him last but he'd looked different even then.

He always looked different.

Aziraphale settled into his desk chair and picked up Crowley’s injured hand. The blood made it look worse than it was, the skin on his knuckles torn but not too deep.

Not for the first time in their long existence, Aziraphale wondered why their corporations were so fragile and why they'd not been given the power to heal them. Perhaps it was too close to body modification, too close to vanity. Aziraphale didn't know. He could only speak for the angels. For demons, it could be anything, but he imagined it was a punishment.

The thing about wounds was that they made the blood rush, adrenaline working to numb the body. And with adrenaline came an arousal that both he and Crowley were utterly familiar with, shameful as it was.

It was bloodlust. It was an ache inside you when you fought, the burning of acid in your muscles, grief and need as the body cried for relief.

Crowley used to slink into his tent after a battle, bruised knuckles and bleeding mouth and after Aziraphale tended to him it would become biting kisses, hands inside clothes, huffing breaths. It was a terrible idea. It hurt. It made things worse. Torn stitches, reopened wounds. And yet they did it every single time.

As the physical impact of war had decreased, their liaisons had dwindled. They weren’t on the front lines fighting with swords and fists. There was no rush of blood to the head to make sense of their decisions in the dark.

That didn't mean that Aziraphale didn't find bruises on his body, press into the fading purple blooms as he brought himself off with his hand, relishing the ache and thinking of Crowley. It didn't mean Aziraphale wanted him any less. It was simply that there were no opportunities between them anymore. Aziraphale couldn't just tug Crowley into a kiss, make love to him on the sofa in the back of the bookshop. There was no desperation there, no excuse in the follies of the human body. Just desire, just an emotion too intense for Aziraphale to name.

The words had only entered his mind once. 1941, the smell of rubble and heat. A brush of fingers on knuckles. _I love him._

Aziraphale had stuffed the thought so deep that it never dared rise. Not even after treating Crowley's burns in Poland two years later, worshiping his body with his mouth.

Sometimes he thought Crowley knew, the way his eyes lingered. But there was nothing to be done about it. Crowley had never been one to hesitate in taking what he wanted. If he wanted Aziraphale's love, he would have taken it long ago.

“How’ve you been?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale quietly cleaned the blood from his fingers.

“Quite well,” Aziraphale answered, distracted. He dried Crowley’s hand carefully. His fingers were so beautiful, long and slender, the knuckles framing his hand and making it look broad and strong.

Aziraphale shook himself. He shouldn’t be lusting after Crowley’s hands. No matter how beautiful they were. He shouldn’t be lusting at all.

“Yourself?” Aziraphale asked, throat thick with unsaid things. It was useless to want this, to want to hold Crowley’s hand when it was healed, kiss the soft spot beneath his ear, kiss his mouth without biting teeth.

“Bit boring,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale hummed, brushing his fingers over Crowley’s wrist before plucking out bandages from the first aid kit. He cradled Crowley’s hand in his, wrapping his scraped knuckles in the white fabric, slipped between fingers and then pinned around his wrist.

“Is that alright?” Aziraphale asked, breathless.

Crowley pulled his hand back abruptly, settled it in his lap. "Probably should do the thigh before I bleed out.”

Aziraphale was probably imagining things but he sounded just as breathless. Perhaps from the pain.

Without warning, Crowley snapped his fingers and he was nude from the waist down. It was evident why he couldn’t handle it himself. The cut was jagged and deep, running at a strange angle from his outer hip to the top of his thigh. With a sinking heart, Aziraphale realized it would need stitches.

Aziraphale glanced away and took a deep breath before looking back. Crowley was hard. Undeniably so. It was a relief to know he wasn’t alone in this.

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asked as he sank to his knees beside Crowley.

Crowley's eyes were closed and his face was pale but he nodded.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Aziraphale said through the hammering of his heart. He could smell Crowley's unique smokey scent, all tangled up with the rusted scent of blood.

It shouldn't be arousing and yet...

"It's alright," Aziraphale said quietly, rubbing a soothing hand down Crowley's thigh. His leg hair tickled his palm and Aziraphale stopped his hand when he could cup Crowley's knee in it, feel the shift of his kneecap under his hand.

Aziraphale tugged latex gloves out of the first aid kit, slipping them on his hands before extracting the suture kit he had tucked away at the bottom. He remembered sewing Crowley's side shut after the battle of Agincourt, of Crowley doing the same to him after a scrape in Prague.

Aziraphale looked at the wound before him, not the worst he had seen. The blood was no longer fresh, only oozing slightly at the deepest places.

He dipped the washcloth in the water and paused, cloth hovering above the wound.

"This may hurt," Aziraphale said. Crowley grit his teeth and nodded.

"Do it."

Aziraphale wrung out the cloth, water dripping over the cut and running rust red down Crowley’s thigh, dripping into the basin and over the stool. There was something erotic in the way the water pooled under his thighs, pale pink and then clear as Aziraphale rinsed away the blood. His red leg hair was slicked to his skin, darkened by the water. Aziraphale wanted to touch and touch and touch, feel the give of his flesh, explore the tender bones of him.

With careful hands, Aziraphale set to work on Crowley's exposed thigh, black sutures forming stark crosses in pale skin. He tried to ignore the sharp hisses of pain, how close they were to other sounds. Crowley’s arse was hanging off the back of the stool and Aziraphale was steadily trying not to look at the way the angle spread him open, put him on display.

But by the time he was done, he was hard in his trousers and when he looked up at Crowley, he saw his pale face, his shallow breathing, the dark vertical structure of his eyes and Aziraphale knew exactly what was about to happen. Sliding his hand down the slick skin of Crowley’s injured thigh, he gripped his knee, feeling the asymmetry of it under his hand. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth beside the jagged wound, a small kiss, the bloom of copper on his tongue.

Crowley inhaled sharply and Aziraphale paused. “Do you want—”

“Yes,” Crowley gasped, head falling forward, exposing the harsh knob of his spine. His forearms came to rest on the desk, hands in fists. His bandaged knuckles had soaked blood into the wide fabric, blooming like poppies over the back of his hand.

Aziraphale dragged his mouth over Crowley's hip, his buttocks, moving until he could fill his hands with his arse and lick into him.

Crowley arched his back, crying out at the sensation and Aziraphale's stomach clenched

He wanted so much from Crowley, so much Crowley couldn't give. Wouldn't give. But for now, Aziraphale had this.

Sliding his hand under Crowley's shirt, he placed his gloved palm on the flat of his back as he fluttered his tongue and licked him open.

He wondered if Crowley would want his cock or if this was as much as he could handle.

He wanted it either way.

Spit slicking his mouth and chin, Aziraphale pulled back. He felt his stomach pulse with arousal at the sight of Crowley splayed out. His back was arched as he gripped the desk, arse pressed back. Aziraphale could see the underside of his balls where they were pressed into the seat.

He traced two latex-covered fingers between Crowley's buttocks, teasing him slightly before brushing them over his perineum and earning a jerk of his hips as Crowley rutted against the seat.

"Fuck," Crowley hissed, pushing his arse back further.

"What would you like?" Aziraphale asked quietly, rubbing his index finger in careful circles. "I want to make you feel good."

Crowley groaned, head tipping forward so that it rested on his arms where they were braced on the desk. "Inside me. Please."

Aziraphale summoned slick onto his fingers. In his distracted state, he summoned too much and it slid down Crowley's backside pooling beneath his arse, joining the water that had yet to drip down the edges of the stool.

Crowleys cried out when Aziraphale pressed a single finger into him, one hand caressing his uninjured hip as he pressed kisses over his lower back.

"Fuck, are you still wearing the gloves?" Crowley asked, voice thready with ill-disguised need.

Aziraphale blinked. "I—yes, I suppose I am. I can take them off—”

"Leave them on," Crowley said darkly, his tone making arousal coil tighter in Aziraphale's belly.

Crowley was gorgeous like this. Laid open for him. Only for him.

They’d discussed it once, ages ago. The Revolutionary War. Aziraphale had been stupid and asked, _Have you ever done this with anyone else?_

Crowley had jerked away from him, eye flashing with hurt. _Have you?_

 _No,_ Aziraphale had replied. _Of course not. It’s only ever...only ever been you._

Crowley’s expression had faded into something soft. They’d fallen asleep together that night, huddled together on the cold ground.

When Aziraphale had woken up, Crowley was gone.

Aziraphale slipped another finger beside the first, knuckles slipping over the lubricated skin. He’d used too much but Crowley didn't seem to mind. He moaned under every stroke of Aziraphale's fingers.

"That’s good," Crowley gasped when Aziraphale scissored him open, penetrating him deeper. "Fuck, it's been too long."

Aziraphale's heart clenched and he tried to ignore the silly hope that stirred inside him. It almost sounded like Crowley missed him. Missed this.

Crowley whined and groaned as Aziraphale prepared him, one hand finally going to his lap so he could wrap it around himself.

"Please, angel, please," Crowley said, each syllable guttering like a candle as Crowley folded down onto the desk, arse curving out even further, begging for attention.

Aziraphale stood, struggling with his zip as he prepared to give Crowley what he asked for.

He carefully avoided Crowley's wound, gripping his waist instead of his hips as he slicked himself with a miracle. It was too much, too wet, and the head of his cock slipped against Crowley's arse. He reached down and guided himself with his hand, groaning as he began to sink inside. He pushed up Crowley’s shirt tails, exposing the spare expanse of his back. The muscles moved over the line of his spine as he pushed back against him.

He was so thin, so beautiful. It had been too long. He'd nearly forgotten how good Crowley felt. His heat, the way his body moved.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Aziraphale said. A stupid thing. That was the whole point. To revel in the pain, to push the adrenaline higher.

Crowley groaned in acknowledgment, but that was the last Aziraphale would hear out of him for a while. He always fell silent when they did this. When Aziraphale sucked him, it was a steady stream of filthy words; when they rocked against each other, spilling onto each others’ bellies he murmured encouraging words; but when Aziraphale fucked him, it was always the same. Crowley sank his teeth into the back of his hand as if to prevent any sound from coming out. Like he was trying to control himself, keep something inside. Aziraphale would think he hated being fucked if he didn't ask for it so much.

On the floor of Aziraphale's chambers in King Arthur's castle, in the fields outside of Stokeworth, in Crowley's rooms in Rome.

_I want you to fuck me. Let me feel you._

It was the only time Crowley kissed him. After Aziraphale spilled inside him, Crowley would kiss him, fisting his own cock until he spent himself on Aziraphale’s thighs.

So Aziraphale handled Crowley's silence by thinking about that kiss, the promise of it enough to carry him through the painful need that grew inside him.

A particularly hard thrust forced a grunt from Crowley's chest, muffled against his hand.

When it came to Crowley, something inside Aziraphale was broken open, his heart a starving thing. He wanted to hear that sound again.

Forgetting himself—forgetting everything except the hungry mouth in his chest, Aziraphale fucked Crowley brutally. His hands slipped over his skin, the slicked gloves having trouble finding purchase. Looking down, Aziraphale watched the obscene stretch of his cock inside Crowley. He reached between them and rubbed his thumb over the rim. Crowley made a sound like a strangled yell and Aziraphale’s orgasm began to coil at the base of his spine. It was the slap of too slick skin, muffled groans as Aziraphale used Crowley’s body. That’s what it felt like. Using. A means to an end he couldn’t name. Every grunt and noise that emanated from Crowley's chest spiraled him tighter until his legs began to shake, thrusts growing erratic as he came inside Crowley.

When he finally slipped out, he found himself pushed back until he was pinned against the wall, Crowley's mouth on his. How he moved so fast Aziraphale didn't know. Didn't care. Because Crowley's mouth was hot as coals and felt so good on his. He moaned as Crowley slipped his tongue between his lips, deep and desperate.

"Aziraphale, fuck, I..." Crowley gasped into his mouth, words failing as he spilled on Aziraphale's waistcoat.

Then Crowley was wrenching himself away, taking Aziraphale's heart with him. He’d been so close, so sweet.

"Sorry," he said, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. "I shouldn't have…"

He waved his hand in Aziraphale’s general direction and Aziraphale glanced at the come on his waistcoat. What was he apologizing for?

Aziraphale sighed and tugged his trousers back up. "It's quite alright. I’ve cleaned up worse."

Crowley twisted back to him, eyebrows pinched together. When Aziraphale stayed silent, his mouth tipped down and he snapped his fingers, once more fully clothed.

"Right. Thanks for the seeing to," Crowley said easily, the slight hitch in his step the only thing betraying the fact that he was injured. That he’d been fucked. "See you in a couple years."

Aziraphale took a step forward and then stopped himself. There weren’t embraces or whispered words afterwards. There never were. Why couldn’t he learn his lesson? Why did he want?

"Would you like to stay? It’s been...it’s been a while," he said with as much feeling as he dared.

Crowley scoffed, body tense, but when he met Aziraphale’s eyes, he faltered. The tension in his posture disappeared.

“No harm in catching up, I suppose,” Crowley said with a shrug.

That might not be true, the jagged thump of Aziraphale’s heart proof otherwise. But he’d offered and he wanted—he wanted too much, everything—so he said nothing.

And Crowley stayed.


End file.
